A Dark Debt
by ambre gris
Summary: The White Spirit is real and His magic knows neither mercy nor restraint. Upon surviving her most trying ordeal, Lily Bell must face an even more terrifying calamity soon after. Lily POV. AU.
1. The Walls That Surround You

**Author's Note**: I can't wait for August, when we'll finally get season three and all the answers we've been waiting for (well, we can hope, at least). To pass some of the time, here's a fic that's been bugging me since the season two finale. I'm having fun writing it so far, though I'm not exactly sure where it'll end up, but that's the excitement of the whole thing! HoW belongs to AMC and all that good stuff. The titles of each chapter are lyrics to the song "Little Habitats" by Joman. If you like what you're reading, please drop a review and let me know what you think. :)

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**_A Dark Debt_**

_One: The Walls That Surround You_

I am gone from the world now and there is nothing holding me back from entering the next. I only know this because I am wandering through a fog that covers everything and gives no indication of day or night. All is calm, quiet. I am naked but unbothered by the fact. I feel no pain in my flesh nor in my heart. I suppose I could call this heaven. Either way, it's more than enough for one such as myself.

My feet can't grow tired anymore. There is no cold and, best of all, no hunger. I only felt these things minimally back at Hell on Wheels, but once you see them or are ever subject to them, you never forget. And I am glad that before I left the earth I was able to once more know the touch of someone who genuinely cared. He wasn't shy of the truth and in that came his ability to keep an open mind to all matters. Even me, I had eventually found, which brought endless comfort in the darkening days that had followed and lead me here. I remember waiting for him at the dance, thinking we would never meet again. But he returned somehow and after that we were always dancing. Now I am a little sad. He will find my body... and then what? If anything, perhaps the burial will be by his own hand.

My meandering continues through the haze and I wonder if Robert also took this road to the other side. There is a tiny, joyful swoop in my stomach and I imagine his face, determined and full of adventure. Full of life, even as life was leaving him by the day. My first love, my American surveyor. The one who dared to dream bigger than the seemingly endless world ahead of him. I feel a sigh escape me. And yet, I failed him. I am here now because of my own foolishness and selfish means. If we ever cross paths again, I hope that he knows I tried. I hope that he will be able to forgive me.

Just then I'm halted and all thoughts banish themselves for a lone figure who appears in the distance. I am curious but a feeling of dread creeps up my back. Just when you think you're alone...

I draw nearer and I can see that this phantom is a man by his broad shoulders and stance. Though he is sitting cross-legged on the floor of this place, his presence looms. His hair is long and his skin earthen, and I spot the feather behind his ear and the way the buckskin falls about him. Then my heart, as if it were still alive, pounds drums unholy inside my chest. One white eye stares at me from the depths of the mist, searing right into me. I feel small, coming undone at the sight of the brave who I had slain no more than a year ago.

He stands to meet me, tall and menacing and vengeful. He says as much as I do: nothing. But this time, so unlike the others, his hands do not reach for my ankles. I open my mouth to gasp and he is upon me, breathing life and smoke right into my shriveled, dead lungs.


	2. I Think They Will Drown You

**Author's Note**: Finally I've found some time to continue this. :) HoW is coming back in a month, though... are you ready? I know I am! Just a reminder, this is pretty AU and won't be following any conventional story arc that the writers have come up with for season 3. As always, HoW doesn't belong to me. Sad! Please R&R, if you get the chance. Enjoy!

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_Two: I Think They Will Drown You_

Suddenly I'm awake but still I feel like one of the dead, like the world I've come back to is all wrong. The air around me smells like fire. Opening my eyes hurts and moving my body is nearly out of the question. How long have I lain as a corpse?

Dreary sunlight pokes through the charred ceiling of the rail car and I realize that the afternoon is on but not for too much longer. So Cullen hasn't made his way back, then. I sit up slowly, looking about. There's not much of a home left, let alone a room. He probably won't miss it anyway. My feet are tingling, as if the fire were continuing to lick at them. I take this as a sign to get moving.

I make my way up from the floor, all stiff and muscles aching with abuse, my neck taut from Thor Gundersen's death grip. I give myself a shiver thinking of that bastard's face. I'd been a fool to believe that appearing helpless would have played to my advantage. If anything, it fueled the destruction he'd planned for me long ago. In my last moments I'd come to accept his insanity — but I never imagined I would have lived to reflect on it mere hours later. I sigh but instantly regret it, for the pain in my throat is unlike any I've ever felt. It's pure hellfire, burning and steadily scraping my delicate flesh. Water… oh, seems like a distant dream.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot my forgotten pistol, the butt a little sooty but the rest looking as usual. I hesitate though some sort of intuition tells me to retrieve it immediately and I listen, checking the gun for ammunition and to figure out just why it had jammed. I'm pleased enough and it goes straight to my hip, the familiar weight comforting me some. I'll forgive its treachery for now and figure that I can always use the damn thing as a bludgeon, if needed.

The air outside is somewhat stifling and my throat aches more for it. I see clouds moving off to the east, wishing they'd make a turn back. Now I know what put out the fires but it's hardly reassuring. Blood remains in the drying, cracking earth; broken arrows and spent casings litter the area; buildings and tents are mere skeletons of themselves, if not completely reduced to nothing. And then it hits me that, among all the debris, there are no bodies… as well as a peculiar lack of people to clean them up. I halt, standing virtually alone in the middle of town. Is it possible that the Sioux returned for all the rest? Dizzily I swing my head every which way, listening, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone, anyone. I find my legs moving without me telling them to. My footsteps are so, so loud among the silence.

I round a corner, heading for the railroad office. It looks to be in bad shape although the foundation seems to have persevered. Thomas Durant is the last person I want to see but he could be my only way out of this. He still has some money if he spent all night protecting the safe, and his influence, though waning, surely has help on the way. I jog the last few steps, stopping short when I notice a female figure resting strangely near one of the downed support beams. Had I a voice I would call out to Hannah Durant, but my only recourse is to approach her quietly and hope that the scene isn't too gruesome.

I couldn't have asked for a worse sight — or smell — as I reach her body. The front of her expensive blouse is ruined by blood and gore, the source of which is a rather large tear from her ear to her larynx. I realize then that the entire part of her neck is missing and I have to look away for a moment to gather myself before continuing. Her scalp is in tact but her skirt wasn't as lucky, though it appears to have been ripped by accident, not intention. Her legs are covered in bruises that her pale skin only emphasizes and her nails are rusty, like she'd been clawing at someone… I'm breathing deeply to control my stomach. Another look at the extreme gash leaves me bewildered. No knife could have torn at the neck in such a way. It's as though she's been gnawed on by a ravenous animal.

_Oh, God, she just…!_ I start and stumble backward to where the opposite wall used to stand, my shoulders eventually finding a hard beam to settle on. I draw my gun, pointing it at the deceased Mrs. Durant. She's slumped in a terrible way, hands parallel to the floor, and I could swear she just reached out and made a grab for my ankle. I'm shaking, shaken, trying to steady the pistol. Hannah is still as the floorboards beneath her.

"You're _dead_," I say, though it comes out as a whisper. My pulse is rocketing throughout me. She makes no move to agree or disagree and after a few more minutes of keeping my gun trained on her, I decide that I need to get going. My mouth is dry from adrenaline and dehydration. Water. Right.

I avoid all other places on the way to the well. In fact, I'm maneuvering quite purposefully, so as not to become distracted again. I know the reality of the situation but if there are any more dead townspeople around, I don't want to see them, not yet. As I sneak along I can't help but think of Cullen and the small band of men he'd taken out to the bridge. Was it safe, or had the Sioux destroyed it as well? My head hurts with doubt. _He's not coming back_… I fight it as best as I can in order to stay focused.

An industrial water pump sits on the outskirts of town, dirtied and looking somewhat defeated. I can only hope that the supply line hasn't been damaged but from here there is no way to tell. With fervor I give the pump a try and my efforts produce nothing at first, then a small stream of warm water gushes forth. I use my hands to quickly clean the dirt from my face and nails and I drink what I can before the water stops. I have no vessel but I now know that the pump works and that I can come back if I have to. It's a small victory amid an entire day of loss.

Closest to me is the church, so I decide to head there, thinking that maybe some survivors found shelter during the battle. I am saddened but not so surprised to see almost all of its canvas walls have been torn or burnt down, and what remains are the doorposts and a few splintered pews lined up near the pulpit, serving as a crude barrier against invaders. The cross that once hung has been felled, trampled and disfigured by angry braves. There are bloody arrows and pages of scripture all over the place. As reluctant as I am, I go to look behind the barrier because I'll never forgive myself if I leave someone to die, lost and alone. I've known that feeling a few times and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone else.

I approach cautiously but even before I can draw near, a strange sound freezes me in my tracks. A grunting accompanied by a wet, sort of tearing noise has me so unnerved that I fumble for my pistol. I say a quiet prayer and cock the weapon, and as the _click_ echoes for an eternity, someone stands from behind the pews. Disbelief washes over me, cold in the hot afternoon.

"I thought you'd gone…" I must have spoken the words because it elicits a reaction from the person, though it is a jerking and abnormal response. Ruth has her back to me, the braids of her red hair loose near the nape of her neck, dress soiled from the arduous night. Her hands are stained and I think for a moment that she's been helping the injured… but when I call her name and she turns, a shadow crosses the threshold of my soul.

My mind plays a quick, flashing scene of Hannah Durant, her jugular vein severed and ripped from her throat by the bloodied mouth of Ruth Cole, the dead Reverend's daughter. Mrs. Durant screams for her life, her hands of no use against her attacker, and she is forced into death while the girl devours her kill.

Ruth stares me down with eyes cloudy and unseeing, full of animalistic intent. She bares her reddened, rotting teeth, a low growl emitting from behind them. I've no idea what to think until I spot it: an arrow, broken off but lodged deep in her chest just beneath the collarbone, near her heart. She must have attempted to save herself but how she stands before me now sends me reeling. _She must be sick… in a fever frenzy_. I'm trying to make sense of this, to calm myself, when the girl lurches forward, snarling and swiping at the air.

"I don't want to hurt you!" I rasp, aiming my pistol straight at her. She can't hear me; she doesn't care and continues toward me in a rage. I move back, watching in horror, and notice that her pace is only hindered by a swollen, probably broken ankle. She's oblivious to the pain but it's as if I can feel it with every crunching step she takes. My mouth salivates and my vision bursts with fireworks as the adrenaline rushes to my brain. Before I can stop myself, I reposition as best as I can and fire.

It takes a bullet to the head for her to finally go down in a heap. Nearly halfway out the door, I can hardly contemplate what's just happened. If I had the will there would be tears but the shock rolling through me is too great. Though abuzz with gunfire, my ears still manage to detect footsteps behind me and I turn on my heel, pistol at the ready to take down the next threat.


	3. The World That's Around Me

**Author's Note**: Lily just can't seem to stay out of trouble! Less than a month until season 3... I'm trying not to think about the possibility that she won't be there but that's why we have fanfiction, right? Right. :) Speaking of which, on with the story!

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_Three: The World That's Around Me_

It's the most inappropriate moment for me to be so torn between laughing and crying but I quickly compose myself and stare straight down the barrel of my gun into the face of the man who nearly succeeded in murdering me earlier today. He's fallen to one knee — now both — and he yields with lanky, trembling arms. His skin is so gaunt that he could be his own white flag but the blistering of burns across his chest mars this vision. A fresher wound, oozing from his shoulder, puts me ill at ease.

"They are coming, Missus Lily Bell! Please, we must — we must away," he stammers, struggling under the sight of the pistol and the obvious pain of his injuries. I can't resist shaking my head in bewilderment. This must be some sort of mirage. Or a dream. I'm still asleep somewhere, my mind playing cruel tricks on my unconscious body.

"You're insane." I'm not sure of what else to say and then I point to his shoulder, using the gun to do so. "What's that there?" Thor Gundersen ignores the question, eyeing our surroundings. I have no intention of taking my eyes off of him.

"You… you woke them up. I, ah — !" When he cringes from the pain it's as if his whole body crumbles. I take some sort of pleasure in seeing him suffer but I think back to what just happened and I need answers. Now.

"Who are you talking about?"

"The townspeople. The savages. _Everybody_." I can tell that speaking takes its toll on him but in a different way. He uses one hand to dab at his shoulder, which grows red and purple by the minute. I straighten, trying to appear strong in the event of his weakness. Then he chuckles, dry and mocking, gesturing to my neck. "I see that you have a mark as well…"

"Where is Cullen?" I ask dismissively. The Swede groans and shakes his head, leaning back on the balls of his feet. Arms still raised he addresses me, though his face is turned toward the sky.

"The White Spirit has been summoned but He cannot rest until His thirst has been slaked. Though the Sioux have given generously, He is still displeased. I have made a blood sacrifice." My muscles are fraught with tension and I can feel them stretched to their ends when he pulls a knife from his pants. He has no idea how lucky he is that I don't fire off an impulsive shot of defense right as he lays it at my feet. I can't help but notice that its blade and handle are flaked with dried blood.

"What do I — ?"

"_You_ must make a sacrifice now, Missus Bell." He stares up at me with cold, sunken eyes. I make no move to pick up the knife, instead using my foot to push it behind me and out of his reach. He doesn't look affronted or even remotely disappointed; he's lost any and all emotion. I can see the sweat clinging to his brow and his hand has gone back to the wound, pulling and grasping at it with desperation. Then the Swede gives a heaving chuckle and falls to the ground, stirring up a little dust and laying still as it settles.

I know I have but a few bullets left so I take the knife from the dirt even though I'm highly uncomfortable doing so. What does this mean? I study the Norwegian man just steps away. He's completely out of his mind. There's no one here. I watch him for the familiar rise and fall of breath but he's gone. Gone with a riddle in place of an answer. He's made a fool out of me again, the bastard.

In an instant I'm overcome with blood-boiling anger. I stash the knife in my pocket and then press the gun to Thor Gundersen's bald head. I barely blink as the bullet rips through his skull and blood begins to pool around it. My feet take me lightly over his body and I feel positively entranced as I journey back to the center of town.

There it is again. The silence. It sets me on edge and my worry only grows with the sinking sun. I walk through the former Hell on Wheels feeling vulnerable on all sides, one hand always hovering near my gun. I'm tired and my body longs for rest. _But you can't stop now. At least find somewhere safe for the night._ I shake my head at myself. This place has never been safe. I just shot two people. One deserved it, there's no questioning that, but the other?

"She was going to kill you." I have to say it aloud or else I won't believe it. A headache is beginning to pound away behind my eyes and I'm apprehensive to find a place to retire out of sight. I head west, toward the tracks. There's got to be a boxcar, a crate, something that escaped the ambush. As the sky starts to turn yellow and orange, I'm in luck. Relief is a warm flood all over me.

Durant's two luxury cars sit parallel to the tracks and although they've clearly been ransacked, they are whole and unburnt. I glance around for any signs of movement, well aware that I could be stepping into a trap. My pistol comes out and I make it visible to any eyes that may be watching. Quietly I sidle up next to the dining car, pulling the door open and backing up and inside.

In the dwindling sunlight I can see that the place is in a shambles. The table is overturned, my feet crunch over broken glass, and much of the draperies have been torn from the windows. Maps and plans cover the floor, soaking up blood and what appears to be oil from a broken lamp. I swallow hard, nervous. One spark and the place goes up. And this time I won't be able to make it out alive.

At the very far end of the car I make myself a little hideaway between a bench and a chair that's had its cushion slashed to bits. I find a curtain to drape myself in though I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight. The day sprawls through my head and it feels longer than the entire time I've been helping to build the railroad. How did everything go so wrong? Can this dream be salvaged?

_Cullen, where are you?_

I am awakened some hours later, well into the night, unaware that I had even drifted off. Outside, the moon washes over everything and peeks through the windows, casting an eerie glow on the wreckage. But it's a sound that has me rattled and, keeping low to the floor, I crawl from my lean-to and behind the dining table. The back door that connects the two cars shudders strangely, as if someone is trying half-heartedly to force it open. I eye the door I came in through, hoping they don't think to try it next.

Moving deliberately toward my escape route but keeping my gun pointed ahead of me, I reach blindly for the handle once I'm at the front door. Before I can stand, a violent shattering of glass nearly knocks me off my feet and in the pale moonlight I witness Thomas Durant heave himself through the frame and into the car. He's snarling and pawing at the air like an animal, unconcerned by the pieces of window lodged in his hands and face. I want to crouch and become small but I force myself to stand as the madman makes his way toward me.

"Thomas?" He stops to look at me, one eye put out by glass, and then growls, hands outstretched. I feel my head shake in frustration, confused by these happenings. I don't want to have to kill anyone else, but —

As I aim the gun at his head, Durant suddenly lunges forward with a burst of energy, knocking the weapon from my grasp and pinning me hard onto the floor. His strength seems inhuman and nothing I do in the way of scratching or kicking affects him. His jaw snaps away, eager for a piece of me. I don't want to die like this, torn to shreds by a cannibal! _I can't!_

I watch in horror as his teeth come for my flesh but at the last moment I remember the knife and manage to wrestle it from my side pocket, somehow finding the will to drive it up and through his rent eye socket. The noise that comes from him is otherworldly and I realize that I'm echoing his screams with my own. Then all is silent as his body slumps to the floor, defeated. I scramble for the pistol and with some hesitation pull the knife from Durant's face. I'm backing out of the car, frantic for another place to hide.

_It's all gone to hell! What am I doing? Where, how — ?!_

Run, damnit! The sound of the struggle will bring someone or something else along soon enough.


End file.
